


Side Effects

by AnxiousEspada



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mindfuck, POV Second Person, Pseudo-Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, fic talks to reader, mild season 4 spoilers, set during s2e3, set during season 2, the reader is the narrator? it's a bit weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousEspada/pseuds/AnxiousEspada
Summary: I will not be owned by you, Elliot repeats, again and again, to himself. He and Mr Robot are locked in a staring contest while seconds pass. Sweat and worse things stick to Elliot’s already-sickish skin. If you can hear Elliot’s frantic thoughts, Mr Robot can too. Hell, he answers him sometimes doesn’t he?It’s all such a mess.(While Elliot lives with his mother, he attempts to get rid of Mr Robot with drugs. Mr Robot is not pleased.)
Relationships: Edward Alderson/Elliot Alderson (implied), Elliot Alderson/Mr. Robot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Side Effects

**Author's Note:**

> This is an additional scene set in Season 2 Episode 3, right after Elliot overdoses on Adderall and Mr Robot forces him to throw it up again. Bits of the dialogue in the beginning are directly from that episode. This is self-indulgent and gross, read the tags and be aware of what you're signing up for. ;D  
> (for Cap, for dragging me into this hell show, and for Pepper who's the GREATEST of enablers)

He really wants you to leave.

He really doesn’t want you to see any of this.

If Elliot Alderson was in charge of anything happening in his life at the moment, he would most likely be able to make you look away. But here’s the thing, and you need to know this - Elliot isn’t the only one granting you insight into the current events. Mr Robot is a part of it too, just as much as you are. Usually, you are the one with the least amount of choice, though. You get to close your eyes and cover your ears if there ever is something you just can’t stand, but that is about all you can do. 

Mostly you don’t, however, and sometimes Elliot hates you for it. He would really prefer if his invisible friend would not have to witness how he is digging shaky fingers through the ill-smelling mass on the ground, searching for the pills.

It’s his attempt at control. The Adderall, he is convinced, will be lock, key and door likewise to bar out Mr Robot and his venomous grin. He knows it will work, even if it is a very desperate last resort. This entire situation - living with his mother, no access to the internet, only ever having one contact over while his mother pretends not to watch him like a hawk, routine, routine - is Elliot reaching out with bloodied hands and broken fingernails to grasp any strip of control he can find. 

Elliot may lie to himself; he may lie to Mr Robot or Darlene or Angela, but he would never lie to you. You usually believe the stories he tells you, right? 

What Elliot shares with you is a bit confusing sometimes. When he goes off into endless monologues, philosophizes about the meaning of the subjects in the world and his own place (or non-place) within it, and sometimes he drones on and on, but you stay there, and you listen anyway.

You know better than that, actually. Who would trust the psychosis-ridden mind of a drug addict with a god complex, right?

Yet you still feel a similar kind of confusion when the faceless goons zip-tie Elliot to a chair in a dark garage. He struggles and writhes, trying to get away from whatever it is that they are planning with the water and the powder. You get the idea before he does, but he catches on rather quickly, and as Elliot does when he has no other way out, he tries to barter, to sell off whatever information he potentially has in exchange for his own life. You have no other choice than to watch in terror as liquid concrete is poured into Elliot’s mouth, as his lungs fill up with it and the asphyxiation sets in simultaneously with the nausea. The smell of it is weirdly dry for something that consists mostly of water.

It’s hard to fathom how this all happened, it came about so quickly, neither Elliot nor you know who these people are and what exactly they want. All you know is that Elliot has no realistic chance of surviving hardening concrete in his lungs. He chokes, and chokes, and the audio leaves you as his consciousness begins to fade in the shockwaves of panic -

And then he is on the ground, cold concrete under his knees instead of in his lungs (interesting that his mother wouldn’t have carpet on the ground in a bedroom) three fingers deep in his own throat, and then the relief comes. Elliot lurches forward and frees himself from the terrible sense of obstruction, heaving, cramping; food that was way too bland to be this acidic in his throat coming up again in slimy clumps. He has to do it twice, actually, and the sound makes you sick in sympathy.

“That’s it,” says Mr Robot from where he is seated at Elliot’s desk, a satisfied grin pulling at his lips. “Get that Adderall out of your system.”

So that’s what all this was about. Elliot’s eyes fall on the small round objects coated in white mucus on the ground in front of him. He’s still heaving, his face twists with rage and agony alike as the realisation dawns on him. However, he also can’t stop retching, not with the texture of cement still prominent and real and sticking his pharynx together. 

“Good boy, that’s it, get those shitty pills out of your system.” Mr Robot pushes on, almost sneering. Something akin to fury etches deep lines of defiance into Elliot’s face once he can make sense of himself, once he realises that he isn’t actually being brutally murdered. The look he gives the man he currently hates like nothing else speaks for itself, before the frantic shift of his eyes goes back to the drugs. They are still whole. They are his only chance. 

Mr Robot must notice where this is going, just as much as you do - both of you know Elliot pretty well by now, after all. While you can’t do anything but observe, Mr Robot can talk and shout to get his way with him. 

“I have burrowed underneath your brain. I am nested there!” He is agitated now, pacing, as he does when he is trying to prove his point to Elliot. 

“I am the scream in your mind.” He certainly is one for dramatics, but Elliot flinches at the raised voice, still breathing heavily, on the verge of breathing so fast the oxygen won’t reach his hands anymore.

Mr Robot is now towering above him. “You will cooperate, my son. I will make you, because I own you.” After that previous display of power, you are inclined to believe him, almost. If truly he is powerful enough to trap Elliot in a hallucination so harrowing he believes his impending death, strong enough to cause such an intense physical reaction - then what else can he do, if he sets his mind to it?

Even you shudder at that. It’s amazing how intricately Mr Robot knows the buttons he has to push to drive Elliot up the wall, and even more unfathomable how he never expects Elliot’s next move after riling him up as such. To you, it is obvious, and it does not shock you when he frantically rifles through his own vomit, picking up his chemical key to freedom, and forces himself with barely any hesitation to swallow down what he can find. 

It is utterly disgusting, but here you are, watching him loyally as Elliot scrambles back to sit against the wall, legs outstretched as if to get more space between himself and the other man.

“I will not be owned,” he gasps out, still not far from hyperventilating. There’s pride on his face despite the situation, pride at the funeral of his own dignity for the sake of his personal greater good.

As Elliot catches his breath, Mr Robot stands and stares. Shadows are cast over his face from the desk lamp behind him. He looks scary, like that, and the moment stretches on. Mr Robot, quiet, and Elliot, still gasping for air and realizing he is not currently dying. It will still take a while until the medication has dissolved, but the way Elliot is resting his head against the wall he seems certain he has secured a victory. He tells you, actually. He does not own me. You hear his voice, loud and clear, devoid of the symptoms of physical strain his body is still under. 

I will not be owned by you, Elliot repeats, again and again, to himself. He and Mr Robot are locked in a staring contest while seconds pass. Sweat and worse things stick to Elliot’s already-sickish skin. If you can hear Elliot’s frantic thoughts, Mr Robot can too. Hell, he answers him sometimes doesn’t he?

It’s all such a mess.

Mr Robot takes a step towards him and Elliot doesn’t flinch. What more than what he has already inflicted upon him could this flight of fancy do to him, anyway? He stares, defiantly, one hand rubbing the other wrist where phantom burns of plastic have been zip-tied into his skin. Any means necessary apparently condones near-death experiences as long as it means Mr Robot gets to stick around a bit longer.

What is his goal here, anyway? So what if the Adderall will get rid of him for a while. Mr Robot should know better than anyone that he will come back after that. Elliot’s mother would find out about her son taking drugs under her own roof, soon enough, and she would see an end to it. That would probably not be comfortable for Elliot, but likely more comfortable than a hyper-realistic abduction and torture scenario. 

Mr Robot cannot be trusted - that much is obvious. It unsettles you when he strides closer to Elliot, whose breathing has calmed down a little, and who has wiped some vomit off his face. It now sticks to his black hoodie sleeves, grey and repugnant. The sour smell still filthens the air. He should stay away from him, Elliot’s had enough for a day. Mr Robot doesn’t want to seriously hurt Elliot - except for the few times when he shot him straight in the head. With a gun. Without hesitation. It hadn’t been real, of course not, nothing Mr Robot does to Elliot is real, but it looked real. It must have felt real, too.

“You don’t understand, do you.” Compassion coats the older man’s words like the sugar shell around bitter medicine. “You can’t just divest yourself of me.” Yet another step closer. Elliot is forced to tilt his head to meet Mr Robot’s eyes. But he doesn’t. He looks almost disinterested, not even the faintest raise of an eyebrow. 

A weird shift happens in your line of sight. Almost as if your eyes go out of focus for a second. When they come back, a blurriness lingers. You notice a flicker in the image of Mr Robot, like a broken outline in the half-dark of Elliot’s room. 

In front of Elliot, calm now, Mr Robot crouches down, head tilted. His mouth twitches, but you can’t tell if it’s a smile or a frown, both, or something entirely different.

“Elliot, Elliot. What am I supposed to do with you? You continue proving yourself resistant to my advice. What do I have to do to make you listen to me, huh, kiddo?”

“You can’t make me do anything,” Elliot answers after a while, voice a strained monotone. He sounds tired. “You’re not real.” It’s a mantra. You have heard him whisper it many times. How would he know what’s real or not? As if to prove his point, Mr Robot seems to flare for a millisecond, the brown of his jacket swapping with the red in his flannel. Elliot blinks. Mr Robot groans, low. That is strange. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Listen to me or don’t. I’ll win either way. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” The hand that reaches for Elliot glitches right before grabbing his throat and pulling.

The room itself becomes grainier for a second, the colour of the light loses warmth and almost dips into a blue-ish neon. Then it is back to normal. The floor is carpet. Huh?

A terribly wet noise erupts where Elliot smacks face first into the vomit-covered stone, Mr Robot forcing him down with strong arms. Elliot has to squeeze his eyes shut against the brutal pain that now spreads from his temple all the way down to his jaw. He wheezes.

“I’m not afraid of you.” It’s barely audible, but the words are strong in their quietness. A tinge of red mixes with the gruel-looking substance under his cheek. “You can’t hurt me in a way that matters.”

The hands bear down with increased force, pressing another wheezing gasp out of strained lungs. Mr Robot folds Elliot’s arms behind his back like paper. His face is cast in darkness as the light flickers once more. Is this happening because of the drugs taking hold? 

Mr Robot chuckles, low and high-pitched at once, but his voice sounds mournful when he answers. “We’ll see about that, kiddo.”

There’s the rustling of fabric. Elliot can’t see what’s happening behind him, so he attempts to lift and turn his head, muscles jittery from the tension. His eyes widen when he feels what you are watching. Are you watching? Are you really watching Mr Robot hold down Elliot with a one-handed grip on his arms while with his free hand he tears at Elliot’s jeans? 

A beat of silence, illogical, because there is still movement. That can happen sometimes, right before the rush of flooding panic deafens Elliot and his perception of the world. 

Far away, stillness hanging a phantom veil over his voice, you can hear him ask, “What are you doing?” He sounds carefully detached, holding the wave at bay for as long as he can. 

Another silence fills with tactile horror, rough skin brushing against Elliot’s lower back, his eyes growing wider and more frantic. Elliot’s voice rings louder, hectic now, “What are you doing?”

A slip of skin becomes visible, followed right after by red lines from the man’s fingernails when Elliot starts thrashing. He puts up a genuine fight, startled out of his frozen fear into so much panic he almost becomes blurry at the edges. Adrenaline kicks in and meets all the wrong chemicals in his bloodstream and beyond, turning his struggle into an uncoordinated flailing that is quickly brought back under control by his father’s strong arms.

No, that’s not right; Mr Robot is a fraction of Elliot’s own mind and only by accident (right?) a resemblance of Elliot’s father. 

On the ground, Elliot becomes dizzy from the hyperventilation and onset of drug-rush. His pants are roughly pulled down his thighs and Mr Robot sits securely on his scrawny calves, pinning him in place. He tugs at his interlocked arms to pull him closer, to inch Elliot’s backside closer to him. Elliot tries to arch away, to no use. 

“I will scream,” he says instead, the threat entirely lost in his frayed monotone. 

“And what good would that do you, mh?” Mr Robot muses as he sneaks his hand between the other’s legs, teasing fingernails over sensitive skin. “No one can see me but you.”

This is not true. Mr Robot closes his hand around Elliot’s dick anyway, and pumps, making Elliot hiss.

“D-don’t touch me, don’t fucking touch me- “ 

“Shush, or do you want mom to find you like this?” Elliot’s breath hitches. The light shifts again, details fade out of focus. Mr Robot looks hyperreal in the soft lights as he strokes Elliot, slow and teasing. “Remember, kiddo. Your mom can never know about this.”

“What are you even talking about-,” He tries to shake off the unwelcome contact, which does exactly nothing useful in his position. The laugh Mr Robot gives is predatory and glitches towards the end. It doesn’t seem right, none of this seems right.

“You need to be taught a lesson, son. That’s all it is I’m doing.” He shoves Elliot sharply back into the unforgiving floor, causing another sick squelching noise. The acrid smell makes Elliot heave, but not much more except for some bile comes up. Or he can‘t find the energy to throw up again. 

In fact, when Edward spits into his hand and starts working his way between Elliot‘s cheeks, you can see Elliot‘s eyes trail out of focus entirely, and he goes lax in that tight-wound way he has.

You are still seeing this, right? Elliot isn‘t talking to you anymore. He is not forcing you to stay here and watch.

Beside the small whimper escaping him, Elliot barely reacts to the finger entering him roughly. Mr Robot begins preparing him, harsh and rough movements, more out of necessity than kindness, face dark and hidden under the basecap and glasses. Elliot’s eyes are still wide open, looking at nothing in particular. You hope he has gone somewhere nicer.

Meanwhile, Mr Robot (right? He looks a bit different to you, but that might be the light that just keeps changing weirdly) is muttering to himself, commenting on how Elliot needs to relax or this will hurt more than it must, almost apologetically. “You’re doing this to yourself, Elliot, there’s not much I can do about it,” he whispers, just before curling the three fingers he has in him by now up. That seems to snap Elliot back into his own body for a moment - he almost shrieks and then draws in a long, rattled breath as if he had been holding it for a while. 

He shudders through the terrible sensations travelling up his spine, shakes his head weakly yet frantic at the same time. “I’m not - I’m not doing this, you are! Stop this, stop it, stop it, plea-!”

A large hand covers his mouth. His arms freed so suddenly, Elliot doesn’t know what to do with them except to brace himself up on the floor. 

“Quiet. No yelling. This is between us.” Elliot is quiet. He is not making a sound. His eyes flicker from side to side, still looking for a way out. After a moment, Mr Robot withdraws his probing fingers, smoothing circles into the skin of Elliot’s thigh instead. Another few moments pass in which Elliot is deadly still except for the faint shaking in his arms and the rapid contraction of his ribs as he continues to breathe too quickly despite Edward’s hand pressing down on his mouth and nose. Then, the hand retreats, smearing salty wetness across his face that Elliot has not even registered yet. The older man’s voice sounds brassy when he speaks, as if far away or under water. “This is a lesson for you, kiddo. It’s happening because you’re afraid of it, a self-fulfilling prophecy that I can’t fight against because your stupid drugs are taking that from me. And that’s entirely on you. Tough luck, buddy.” 

Elliot opens his mouth as if to answer but no sound comes out. The confusion is absolute and fills every line on his pale, sweaty face. It’s clear to you what he wants to say when he looks directly at you. His eyes are those of a frightened child, screaming for help. He can’t do anything, doesn’t do anything when he is pressed back to the cell’s floor, face in his own puke.

You can’t do anything, either. So, you keep looking at his face.

More rustling, followed by a curt groan, movement from the corner of your eye - Edward is really doing it, stroking his full erection, helped by spit and some pre-come. He again says a few words, but he is speaking a different language, or backwards, or just glitching. All of this seems real and artificial at once. He leans forward, guiding himself with one hand, the other holding steadily onto Elliot’s bony hip. At the feeling of hot flesh against his backside, Elliot once more tries to flinch away, but he is held steady. He hisses through his teeth when Mr Robot enters him, a gradual force tearing into him agonisingly slow. 

“D-don’t, ah-, no, dad stop, stop, no-” he whimpers, a nonsensical backdrop to what he can't stop, but he sounds desperate enough, in denial enough to keep asking for mercy. 

(Wait. Wha-?)

Mr Robot bottoms out with a strained, low moan, hips flush against Elliot’s ass. While Elliot’s face is a mask cast in pain and terror, but still so clearly and excruciatingly Elliot, Mr Robot barely looks himself anymore. You’ve recognised him already, haven’t you?

Pain and panic roll off Elliot in waves as he waits for the worst part to come. He moves to cover his head with his arm, hiding his face from view. The first proper sob wracks through him at the same time Edward drags his dick half-way out again. He’s fascinated by it, eyes glued to where they are connected, and you are looking at him now because Elliot is hiding, because Elliot doesn’t want you to see, but you are here, and you can’t help it.

“Relax, kiddo,” he says, but halfway through there’s yet another of these small reality shifts that you can’t really explain. The moment where Edward rocks back in, draws Elliot’s hips closer again, and then away again - it almost seems to fast-forward as sound once more cuts out, like a bad video cassette. Elliot rocks with him, not because he intends to but because the force of movement pushes him forward on the ground, adding bruises to his knees and elbows that he really doesn’t need. His own hands grab at his hair, the only sensible thing to hold on to; or maybe he is trying to distract himself from the high-pressure pain in his lower body.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Mr Robot shouldn’t be doing this, no matter what, wasn’t he usually the one to protect -

Edward moans more loudly as he picks up the speed, slamming his whole body into Elliot as if he wants to pulverize him. The sounds are overwhelming very soon - where skin hits skin, where skin scrapes concrete, you swear you can hear the fingernails digging into the hips and the scalp simultaneously; Edward’s low litany of “Oh God, Elliot, fuck, you’re so tight, so good for me,” answered by Elliots whimpers and sobs and groans that no longer even attempt to resemble words. 

The lights flicker every now and then. As Edward’s thrusts become more erratic and uncontrolled, Elliot becomes more pliant, as if his inner anger and resistance had decided to roll over and die. It seems to be getting darker, too; the details in Elliot’s room fall victim to the shadows creeping out from under the desk, bed, room corners. Maybe Elliot is losing consciousness and this whole scene will soon fade - or maybe he finally managed to dissociate at least enough to get through this. Whichever it is, you hope it helps.

Edward leans back as he snaps his hip forwards, mouth slightly open. He shudders, then shouts, then suddenly almost folds over Elliot and wraps his arms around his torso, pulling him up. He holds on tight, still grinding into him even has the spasms of his orgasm lock up his muscles, face pressed into Elliot’s shoulder from behind. He keeps him there, trapped under him and entirely his, used and marked as such, until he has rocked through the last bit of pleasure. His hand’s brush down Elliot’s stomach, groping for the other’s dick. He finds it entirely soft, and Elliot cries out from hypersensitivity when he touches it. Why Edward decides to show mercy now, after all this, makes no sense whatsoever.

It’s incredible how small Elliot looks like this, weak and sweating and defeated. When Edward lets go and moves back to sit on his heels, Elliot simply slumps back down. 

“I told you: I own you.” Edward sounds satisfied. There’s a violent roughness in his voice, the post-orgasmic haze of someone who has just forced himself on someone else and enjoyed it. He gets no answer, which is fine. He probably wasn’t expecting one in the first place. 

You try to look away from the gruesome details that prove once more what you just witnessed. Edward pulling out, causing semen and a bit of blood to leak out. Elliot bucking from the unpleasant sensation of being left empty, a kindness that doesn’t feel like one after the abuse his body has just taken. The shaky rise and fall of his chest, the rest of him motionless. Edward gets up, wipes his hands off unceremoniously on his jacket, leaving smears behind. He stands and stares down at the mess he has made of Elliot. It’s still darker in the room than it was before Elliot had taken the Adderall the first time around. A flash of emotion skids across Edward’s face and he closes his eyes against it for a minute. He takes a deep breath, but his silhouette remains out of focus.

After he has fixed up his clothing again, looking maybe a bit more rumpled up than is usual, he steps over Elliot and then crouches down beside his head. Elliot flinches violently when Mr Robot lays a hand on his hair and pets, softly. God, this is sick to watch.

“What,” Elliot croaks out. “What more do you want.” 

“Never do that to me again, kiddo.”

The sound Elliot makes might be a laugh, but even if, it’s only a poor caricature of one. 

He lies there for a long time even after Mr Robot has disappeared into the shadows of his room. If he helped him get dressed again, he doesn’t remember - he’s lost some time lying there and just spacing out, so you don’t know either. What you know is that the mess on the floor has dried considerably, and the only traces of distress left on Elliot’s face are the dried-up tear-tracks. No blood from where his head had been crushed into the concrete. It hurts, anyway.

It must hurt considerably, actually, because when Elliot finally gathers the strength to do as much as roll onto his back, he makes sounds as if he is dying. He stares up at the ceiling of his room. If there is anything interesting there, you can’t see it. You wonder if he would cry if you weren’t there to watch. 

It is another few hours until morning comes. Eventually, Elliot manages to pick himself up from the floor and drags himself over to the bed. He doesn’t even take his shoes off. You can only tell that he falls asleep because Mr Robot stalks out of a dark corner once more. He hastily cleans what remains of the puke, and whatever else there is, with a shirt of Elliot’s. In the dark of night you can almost hear his thoughts, angry and sad, furious and devastated. Mr Robot doesn’t talk to you.

When Magda comes to wake Elliot as she does every morning, he only flinches the tiniest fraction more than he usually does upon waking.

**Author's Note:**

> ;') feel free to scream at me


End file.
